Annette didn’t precisely seem to be in a hurry. So upon waking up and having breakfast, I had enough time to take it quite easy. The day was sunny, but the sun wasn’t singeing the streets yet, so it was in fact quite pleasant outside. I started the day same as yesterday, coming out in front of my hotel and finding a place to sit down and watch people pass by. But maybe due to Annette’s obvious uneasiness with my photographing, I somehow got rather wary. I just couldn’t point my camera at whatever looked interesting to me any longer as freely as I had the day before in the morning. Hence, pretty soon I changed the strategy. I went back into the hotel and climbed the stairs all the way up.
And on top I discovered a roof terrace, complete with iron tables and chairs. OK, they were dirty, the white paint was peeling off, and it seemed like this terrace was not in use much, but for me it was more than fine. I was up there on top of the hotel with an excellent view on the Avenue Kwame N’Krumah and the intersection with Rue de la Palestine. From up here I was now free to take pictures all I please, zooming in and out as I saw it fit. Avenue Kwame N’Krumah may be the banking hub of Ouagadougou, but right across the intersection with the Rue de la Palestine there was another market, very much like the one I saw the day before, and it all made for another great mix of characters on this particular spot. In short order, I’d grown to liking such a start to my days here in Burkina Faso.
It didn’t seem anyone was in much of a hurry. A lot of folks were just sitting around without any visible purpose. And even those who were seemingly going somewhere took their sweet time. It was obvious that very few of them would be victims of stress one day. Of poverty maybe. But of stress most certainly not.
And I was up there, fascinated again, once more not knowing where to point my camera first. People were pushing carts loaded with whatever they hoped to sell on that market right across the Avenue Kwame N’Krumah, paying no heed to cars passing through. And it seemed that nobody got nervous about that. Others were carrying stuff on their heads, some of it for their private purpose and some meant for peddling right there in the street. One could see everything imaginable on people’s heads. Brollies, Christmas trees complete with glowing lights, pots with carrots, tied nylon bags, stacks of chair pads, plastic cases full of long and thin French bread and what have you. There were donkey carts, motorcycles and bicycles, green rickety „Peugeot“ taxis and, of course, an odd „Mercedes“ every now and then. One lady swept the Avenue Kwame N’Krumah in a such tardy way, that I was tempted to see it as if the purpose of it was to do as little work in as much time as possible.
Annette didn’t seem to be a candidate to succumb to stress, either. I spent quite some time up there on the roof and then after a while, inevitably, it stopped being so much fun. I was yearning to go out and mix with the crowd. And I couldn’t do it for simple reason of not knowing when she’d be coming. I didn’t want her to arrive and then not find me. So all I did was go down and sit in front of the hotel. There I became instant friends with the hotel guard and together we whiled the time away in the sparse shadow of one tree in front of the hotel gate.
Of course, same as yesterday, people were coming up to me in hope of selling me on whatever each one of them had in mind. The bottom line was, probably each one hoped to cash in a bit on my presence there. But almost no one spoke English and for all my efforts, the French that I had dusted off so far was even worse. So I was not able to strike any sensible conversation with any of them. Of course, as everything has its good side, too, not knowing French was handy when I wanted to get rid of someone without much explaining.
At one point a young guy with Rastafarian looks came to me and started a ubiquitous conversation. When I told him „je ne parle pas français“, he managed to conjure some English. Nothing literary, but good enough to tell me he was an artist and that his hometown was Gaoua. So he’d come to Ouaga in search of a better life.
Being an artist in his case meant being a musician. He played percussions and told me there was a place in Ouaga where he occasionally met and jammed with other musicians in the evenings. As he heard that I was a musician, as well, he asked me to come one night and check the place out. I told him that I’d be glad to, but next day I was leaving Ouagadougou and heading west to Mali.
„And this evening?“, he asked.
„It will depend on what my friend says,“ I said, meaning Annette.
Now he was curious who my friend was and I told him she was coming any minute now. Theoretically, it was true, except in reality not quite. She was just not coming yet. Anyway, he also said he had a friend who owned a studio – or at least worked there, I didn’t quite get him – so sometimes he jammed there, as well. In any case, he clearly said he would like me to meet him in the evening.
Being an artist, he was also proud to point out the fact for me that Ouagadougou, and Burkina Faso, were the host of the most famous African film festival, held on Burkinabe soil every other year. I happened to be familiar with that festival, called FESPACO, which stands for “Festival Panafricain du Cinéma et de la Télévision de Ouagadougou”. The festival started out in Burkina Faso and even if recently it alternates its venue with Tunisia, its name and reference to Ouaga still stand. Interestingly enough, particularly for such a poor country as Burkina Faso, its film-making industry – if you may call it an industry in the first place – commands disproportionate significance within African film industry on the whole. FESPACO obviously did no harm to it.
And so we chatted when the Rasta guy finally disclosed that in fact as a musician he couldn’t make a proper living, so he “had a shop” over there on the market with friends. They were selling cloths and folk craft and he invited me to come and have a look-see. I tried to be polite and said that right now I just couldn’t as I was waiting for my friend.
“I can’t leave here now.”
“And when she comes?”
In truth, I was not interested at all in visiting his shop. I might have gone to the market just to immerse in the crowd, but that would be of general interest. No particular spots held any attraction for me right now, particularly not for shopping.
“I am not sure,” I tried to be polite. “We have a few things to do, so I am not sure if we’ll have time now. Maybe later in the afternoon, when I return.”
He tried to persuade me a bit more, but I wouldn’t budge.
And then, finally, Annette arrived. As soon as she saw me in a friendly conversation with an unknown guy, she frowned with suspicion. She clearly didn’t trust people she didn’t know as much as I did. My experiences from my travels assured me that people were in general nice and helpful. Was there something in Burkina Faso I should know?
Tomorrow I was leaving Ouaga and Annette was coming with me. When I had asked her some time before if she’d be interested in joining me on my trip across Burkina Faso and Mali, she had answered she would have to ask her father. And then some time later she had informed me that her father had said she could go. Now she explained to me that he had asked „them“ for an advice and „they“ told him that she could go.
Interesting.
And now we first wanted to buy ourselves bus tickets. Our first destination was Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina’s second biggest town, which was lying to the west from Ouaga, en route to Mali. Along the way to the bus terminal we also planned to stop by somewhere and find her a new travelling bag, and maybe some walking shoes for the trip. I warned her that high heels, much as she looked very elegant in them, wouldn’t do the trick as we’d be walking quite a bit. So we took us a taxi and she instructed the driver to get us to a spot where according to her knowledge travelling bags might be on sale.
It happened to be in some street which in no way would have otherwise been interesting to a tourist like me. Just a row of shops with a lot of assorted goods, from footballs to shoes to pots, exhibited both indoors and outdoors on one side, and a long sheet metal wall, like when they protect a construction site behind, on the other. Annette suspected they might have travelling bags there and she was right. She found a shop where, among other things, they had them on offer and she started checking them. While she was doing that, a number of people surrounded me, offering me all sorts of everything I didn’t need, hoping they would somehow persuade me to part with some of my money.
One guy was showing me some kind of greeting cards. And I asked him if he had postcards, as I have a few people I always try to write to from my trips. He didn’t have them, but it posed no problem. He disappeared for a few minutes and then returned with a bunch of postcards. Evidently, you just had to ask and market economy would perform miracles. I bought a few and so now everyone was happy. Then I started taking some pictures, some of them with the postcard guy and his friends. Some people around started complaining loudly and angrily, even if in all honesty, I wasn’t really aiming at them. I was interested in the street scene in general. And as I had purchased postcards and made fast friendship with the postcard guy and his friends, they saw it as their duty to stand up in my defence on this one. They yelled back at whoever had any objections to my photographing, so with a few locals on my side, from that point on and in this particular street I was pretty much unbothered.
Then it was time to help Annette choose the bag and when that part was done and the shopping deal closed, it was time to move on. Some people gave it a half-hearted attempt to possibly fob off a few more things on us, but everyone soon realised we had no intention of buying anything any more here. We got back into our taxi.
But I’m the most obvious target for all sorts of schemes as to how to milk me of money. Westerner as I am, and looking unlike anyone else around, people swarmed around me like flies. And they came up with all sorts of outrageous ideas. In a way, you should even admire their creativity. After we had got in the car and were just about to start, a guy came up to us and asked through the window for „parking fee“. It was absolutely fantastic. At that point I could hardly restrain my laughter. However, Annette took him seriously and was already reaching for her wallet when I stopped her and showed at the driver.
I pointed at him, saying:
„If anyone needs to pay, than it’s him,“ knowing fully well that the guy outside was, in fact, talking bullshit. Annette told him what I’d said and then the guy addressed the driver, again asking for that parking fee. The cabbie gave him that where-on-earth-have-you-fallen-from look and coolly dismissed him with a simple:
„Pourqui?“
I almost burst out laughing. The poor sod, of course, retreated. And we went to the bus terminal.
One of several in town. As opposed to what I’d been seeing in other countries, here in Africa each carrier seems to have its own bus terminal. Annette decided that the SKV company was the best one around, so their international terminal was our next spot of call. The driver left us there, I paid him and then we entered the enclosed compound where there were both SKV offices and buses, when in town. The connection to Bobo-Dioulasso seemed to be good, with five coaches every day, and we purchased tickets for the one at eleven next morning. For some strange reason, they demanded our names and only when we had given them to them, did they issue us the tickets.
SKV International bus terminal was some way off the downtown in what to me looked like a busy and hectic suburb. There was this one paved road that got you to the terminal, but everything else was a network of crowded dirt side roads stretching off in all possible directions. A bustle of honking street cars, mostly run-down, but also some shiny and quite expensive, a vast sea of motor-cycles and numerous people on foot, all that was just outside the iron gate of the terminal. The roads were lined with vendors selling food and other stuff, there were donkey carts slowly passing by, a lot of dust in the air and – interestingly enough – people were dressed for all climates, from mere T-shirts and short-sleeved shirts to fur-collared winter jackets. And all that in a day with an air temperature easily soaring up to 35°C.
Annette told me that her family was again expecting me today. After all, I had promised the day before that I would come, hadn’t I? But before that we decided to have a lunch. Annette seemed to skip breakfasts, and it’d been quite a while since I’d had mine. So we were both ready for a meal. I had no idea where in Ouaga we were. Usually, I always have my „Lonely Planet“ on me and consult it for directions. OK, I had it even now. But with Annette acting as my guide, I wasn’t opening the book at all. So we just flagged down another cab and she gave it instructions. After some time the driver dropped us off. Again, I had no idea where and why, but Annette seemed to know exactly where we were. It was another suburb-like spot, only maybe a bit closer to the city centre. There was a long row of low houses, both wooden and concrete, on either side of the straight and long road. There were motor-cycles again – Ouaga seemed to be teeming with them – there were donkey carts, pedestrians, indoors and outdoors shops, selling car tyres, flush toilets, bathroom boilers, phone cards, wheelbarrows, camera films and so on. There were peddlers offering mops, chewing gums, scissors, padlocks, toys. There was a doctor’s clinic, a photographer’s shop and a restaurant offering African and European specialties. In short, it was a place like you probably wouldn’t be able to find on any other continent.
Here in Ouaga it seemed to be just one of many.
We stopped by in a shop selling shoes, but we saw nothing of walking footwear that Annette could find of use while on the trip. So we gave up for now, crossed the street and sat at a table in that „Le Buro“ restaurant and café, offering African and European dishes. We placed our order practically right away, but it took them an eternity, close to an hour, to deliver us such a simple fare like egg omelette and rice. Nobody seemed to be in particular hurry and hardly gave a toss as to how hungry we were. It seemed that in Africa, when you went to a public place to eat, you should go not when you were hungry, but in anticipation of hunger.
Well, you learn something new every day.
When we were finally served our meals, the cutlery I got looked as if it had been quite some time since it had last seen some water. My fork was probably precisely that one that they had forgotten to wash on last several occasions and it had generous traces of food from some other plates glued on.
Annette rolled her eyes. And conveniently, all waiters had suddenly disappeared. I grabbed the fork, went behind the bar and entered a small back yard which in turn led to the kitchen. In the kitchen, by a wood-and-coal burning stove there were two guys. They didn’t speak English, but one look at the fork was enough to convey my point. Ever smiling, they took the fork over from my hand, got out another one from somewhere, wiped it with a cloth which was fairly far from being the cleanest one I’d ever seen and politely said:
„S’il vous plaìt.“
The new fork looked better. Somewhat. I turned it over in my hand, not exactly sure what to do about it. Then I decided to risk it and have my lunch with it, no matter what. So I just said:
„Merci,“ and returned to the table. It turned out I would be fine.
After the lunch we went to Annette’s place again. Once more we passed by the same Place de la Révolution, where you allegedly get arrested if you take pictures. By now I was not so sure any more. It seemed to me that Annette was for some reason a victim of some less than founded fears. I had a feeling that, at least when it came to taking pictures, things were not all that bad here. OK, I understood there might be restrictions. Also, I understood that people usually didn’t like being photographed, so it was prudent to do it as inconspicuously as possible. But for all that, I couldn’t believe it was such a grave issue.
So this time, having my camera ready and knowing that our taxi would have to slow down at the Place de la Révolution roundabout, I just shot my picture when we were there. Nobody said a word. So much for the arrests.
Afternoon with Annette’s family was another pleasant one. Time passed fairly fast. When it got almost dark, Annette and I sat on her family motorbike and she took me to the „Belle Vue“. Tomorrow morning it was time to start our trip.
I hoped she would be on time this time.
When I arrived at the reception desk, I was given a message that the Rastafarian guy from earlier in the morning had come looking for me. He had even left the phone number for me to call him when I returned. But of course, it was out of question now. I was going to bed instead.
On the whole, my impression was that Burkina Faso most certainly shouldn’t be the first foreign country to travel to. A travelling novice would inevitably be experiencing a culture shock here. For, what goes on in Burkina probably beats everything I’d seen before. China, my most recent destination prior to this one, is from the perspective of where I was now a completely western or first-world country, except for millions upon millions of almond-eyed faces. Burkina Faso is another world. And most certainly another century. Under the baking hot sun, the life goes so slowly here that you have time for almost everything and there’s no hurry whatsoever. It can be unnerving for a westerner like me, but it can also be very charming.
And I could take pictures without a break if only Annette were not so afraid.
